Today I turn 32. I am officially a thirtysomething. 40 is just around the corner, and with that comes early retirement spent entirely on my private yacht. I only have eight more years to overcome my crippling seasickness.
How does one rightly celebrate the 32nd milestone? I’m not going to try out for a pro basketball team. Still too young to freak out and buy a sports car. Too old for a bouncy castle (or am I?).
What I need is a goal; something to distinguish this year from all the other unimportant birthdays I’ll have. What I want to have happen, when I’m 85 and looking back on my life, is to say to myself “I remember my 32nd year. It was the year I ______________________________
Drawing another year of Falling Rock is not enough. Publishing my zombie book is not enough. I want discovering-the-north-pole excellence. I want cloning-dinosaurs ambition. Maybe I should start taking steroids just in case I need the added muscle mass for whatever I’m going to do.
Stay tuned, dear readers. This year is going to be Francis-Ford-Coppola’s-ego big. It’s going to be series-finale-of-MASH big. I literally and figuratively can’t wait for my 33rd year to begin.